Happy Deathday
by Scandalacious Intentions
Summary: “I don’t know, Padfoot,” said the teenaged Sirius. “But it looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Sirius reaches the Gates of Saint Peter and is rather surprised by who he finds there.


**Disclaimer: I can't deny it any longer. I own Harry Potter…in the whacked out dream I will have next Tuesday.**

**A/N: For EmmaLeigh because Harry Potter facebook has been done.  
****Also, I have written two really angsty chapters for Sirius and I want to do something fun with him while the alcohol is still fresh in my system ;-)**

Was this it then?

He wasn't entirely sure what he had expected but the lack of Saint Peter was frankly a bit of a disappointment. He had always imagined Heaven to be a room full of his friends (a small room, granted) who were throwing a constant party and dancing on tables.

At the very least, he had expected a man with a long beard to stand before the Pearly Gates with a long list.

"_And you are?"_

"_Sirius Black, Saint Peter."_

"_Ah, well you're not my list. I'd better send you to an eternity of buggery and poking with pitchforks."_

That was at least how he had imagined his arrival in the next world and this, although decidedly better than being poked and buggered, was getting a little boring.

The room was white. Everything was white and by everything, he meant the floor, the ceiling and the walls. That was all there was. Sirius had heard of minimalist but this was taking it a bit far.

Perhaps it was the waiting room.

"Hello?"

No answer. There didn't appear to be a bell to ring either. If only Remus were here. Remus would know what to do. Sirius sighed and slowly slid down the wall.

"Well, this is a bit shit, isn't it? Can I say shit? Is that okay?"

Familiar laughter echoed around him and he scrambled to his feet, staring down at bright green grass and buttercups. "I am such a pansy," he muttered to himself, heading toward the dark haired young man in a Gryffindor uniform under the beech tree by the lake.

The teenaged boy looked up at him and jumped to his feet, grinning. His hair was a shaggy, ebony mess and it looked as though it had been plaited the night before.

Sirius blinked, startled by bright silver Black eyes.

"Er…hello…"

The young Gryffindor raised one eyebrow. "Hi, Sirius. Do your recognise me?"

Sirius nodded. "But I don't understand."

The younger Sirius grinned at him. "Well, I'm the you that was, that is. Does that make sense?"

"How the fuck is that supposed to make sense?"

Young Sirius shrugged. "It just sounded pretty Moony-ish and I thought the best man for this sort of job was Moony."

Sirius nodded. "Right, yeah. I see the thought process."

"That's funny," said the younger boy. "Moony says that too."

The silence that followed as Sirius contemplated just where along the line he had began talking like Remus Lupin without imitating him deliberately; not that that was entirely a bad thing.

"Where are we?" he asked eventually, vaguely recognising the Hogwarts grounds. They were blurred and slightly off kilter as though he were walking in a dream.

"_It wasn't a dream. It was a place. You and you and you and you were there. Oh but anyway, Toto, we're home."_

No, wait. He was getting confused. That was _The Wizard of Oz_.

"I don't know, Padfoot," said the young Gryffindor, his eyes sparkling with the wit that Sirius knew was about to slice clean through the armour he had crafted for himself. "But it looks like we're not in Kansas anymore."

Sirius jumped. "Do you know what I'm thinking?"

"Of course I do, we're the same person, nutcase."

Sirius made a face behind his own back. "You always were a facetious twat, Sirius, do you know that?"

The teenager spun on his heel and frowned, peering into an aged set of matching eyes. "When did you turn into Moony? When did you become middle aged?"

"Probably when I became middle aged."

"Now who's the facetious twat?"

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Cut your hair. You look like an idiot."

The teenaged Gryffindor shrugged. "I think it looks great actually."

"You do now," said Sirius. "But in ten years time, when you can't think about your friends because the Dementors will snatch the memories from you, you have time to nit-pick about your own appearance. In ten years time, you will hate that haircut. Trust me, I've been there."

The boy was genuinely scared. "Why? What happens to me? What's going on with Dementors?"

For a moment, Sirius had visions of his younger self pushing Peter in the lake and 'accidentally' forgetting about him, James and Lily waving Harry off to school, he and Remus still sharing a flat and still avoiding baked potatoes after the Great Explosion of '79. He might not even be dead. The epiphany came and in his most Remus-like moment, he bit his tongue and shook his head. "Not a lot," he answered. "It's a bit of a long story."

The younger Sirius nodded. "And it would bore the living shit out of me, wouldn't it?"

"To be honest, mate, yes. It's a bit anti-climatic too; what with me being dead and all."

The young Sirius shrugged. "Fair enough," he said. "As for where we are, we are in Hogwarts. This is where you wanted to be, isn't it? You wanted to be me, back in 1976?"

Sirius nodded. "Yeah."

"I don't blame you," said the other Sirius. "I mean, I might have a terrible haircut in your opinion I hasten to add, but I do keep my skin in better condition than you do."

Sirius laughed bitterly. "But you're me."

The teenaged Sirius rolled his eyes and in the manner of an exasperated nursery nurse said, "Yes, Sirius, we have established my identity. We are currently trying to figure out just where we are in time."

Sirius frowned. "You said yourself, 1976."

Young Sirius winced. "Well, the thing is, I've sort of cocked things up with Remus."

Sirius froze. 1976; the winter of their discontent. "Where are we?"

"March."

He visibly relaxed. "What have you done?"

Young Sirius shrugged. "I cock things up with Remus almost every day. It's hard to keep track."

Sirius grinned. "You might want to watch out for Remus; just a word of advice. You think he's quiet and shy, but he's not. After you dye all his shirts pink, he gives you a title 'Bullshit Artist of the Year 1977', presents it to you in front of the whole school at breakfast and you don't ever live it down. Don't dye the shirts."

The teenaged Sirius nodded. "Don't dye shirts, right. Anything else?"

Sirius winced and somehow managed to maintain his smile. "Nothing major. You just have some lessons to learn. You're still an arrogant arsehole, you see."

Young Sirius gave him the finger. "Don't be an idiot."

"So what do I do now then? What happens to me?"

The younger Sirius shrugged. "Well basically, we become one and the same. Everything you need from me, you take and all the things you don't like very much like my easy charm, dashing haircut-"

"Modesty-"

"Indeed, you can get rid of."

Sirius frowned slightly but nodded. "Okay but what do I do after?"

"It's the after-life, mate, you can do whatever the bloody hell you want. Moony won't be there yet, which is why I think I cock things up for you but when you see him again, say sorry for me, won't you? James is waiting anyway, arsing about with the Snitch."

Sirius grinned and peered through the trees. Sure enough, the tiny gold glimmer betrayed his friend's position, back against the beech tree, head resting against a soft section of bark.

"What do I do?" he asked.

Young Sirius shrugged. "You've known him a lot longer than I have, mate."

Sirius took a deep breath and ambled through the trees, hands in pockets, wondering what his opening line ought to be. Needless to say, 'Er, hi, Prongs. Listen, sorry about that little Peter mix-up. It won't happen again', would not suffice.

He fidgeted with a loose thread in grey trousers and…

Wait! He hadn't been wearing grey trousers. He hadn't been in his Hogwarts robes either. He certainly hadn't had the obnoxious haircut.

"James!"

James grinned. "What happened to Marilyn Monroe?"

"Marilyn? What are you on about?"

"You always said that you'd waltz into Heaven with Monroe on your arm."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Did I? Well then, Heaven isn't Heaven without Marilyn."

"She's in hell," said James as though he regularly informed people of this fact.

"She's where? Why?"

"Well," sighed James. This was clearly a story worth telling. "She went to Saint Peter and he told her that they wanted to make her an angel. She was well up for it until he told her that they'd have to drill holes in her back and forehead for the wings and halo. She told him she'd rather go to hell and he said, 'But Madam, that's buggery and rape.' She said, 'Yeah, but at least I already got the right holes'."

This took a moment to sink in but as soon as he understood the joke, Sirius laughed. "This is going to be just like old times."

"And on the plus side, we can't get ourselves killed."

"And we won't have Pettigrew."

"Sorry, am I supposed to answer that in a voice thick with regret?"

"We won't have Remus."

"Yet."

Sirius wrinkled his nose. "When did you get so morbid?"

"Fifteen years of sensibility," James explained. "It gets to you."

"I think twelve years in Azkaban might be worse and I'm still not predicting the death of my best mate. How long has he got left then, Mystic Meg?"

James gave him a sarcastic smile. "I think dead beats incarcerated and I don't bloody know. Besides, I'm not organising a racket or anything. There won't be any gambling on it."

Sirius nodded. "Well, if you change your mind, I give him six weeks without me before he leaves his own head somewhere."

James snorted. "And if it were me and Remus talking about you, I'd agree."

"You're so bloody mean to me."

James grinned, blatantly chipper. "I know," he replied. "And now you'll have it for the rest of eternity. Happy Deathday, by the way!"


End file.
